


You Give Love a Bad Name

by princess_schez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_schez/pseuds/princess_schez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In chapter 33 of Supernatural: Time Is on My Side, there was that girl, Bela – she was British and a cat burglar [...] she stole the Colt from you then she said she gave it to Lilith, remember? Well, you know she lied, right? She never really gave it to Lilith. Didn't you read the book? There was this one scene where Bela gives the Colt to a demon named Crowley – Lilith's right-hand man... I think her lover, too.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Give Love a Bad Name

**Author's Note:**

> This fic examines that missing scene from the end of S3. Title from the song of the same name by Bon Jovi. Banner by me. Also, this fic was submitted to the "On the Road With My Brother" fanmag last year. :-)

[ ](http://s429.photobucket.com/albums/qq20/PrincessSchez/Supernatural/Other%20Supernatural%20stuff/?action=view&current=yglabn.png)

 

  


* * *

_An angel's smile is what you sell  
You promise me heaven, then put me through hell_  
__

It was said the road to Hell was paved with good intentions. Frankly, it was a metaphor he wasn’t all too familiar with. After all, he had sold his soul for an extra three inches below the belt, so what did he know about good intentions?

A smirk crept onto his round face as he pressed the small glass to his lips, admiring his reflection on the large floor-length windows as he took a swig of Craig – aged thirty years, thank you very much.

The velvety darkness of the late hour grasped everything in its midst just outside his sprawling mansion. Deep flickering shadows – courtesy of the large candelabrums – breathed like living beings as they floated across the mahogany-paneled walls.

He was particularly pleased in his choice of meatsuits, despite the fact that this one was British. Sadly, even demons couldn’t always get what they wanted. Yet, he had studied the victim closely, particularly liking how this one was… well, more endowed. More what he was like back when he was human.

But most of those memories were distant and hazy, like waking from a nightmare and the recollection of it slowly faded away with time. He wasn’t even sure if what he did remember was real, or just fabrications invented in his mind after enduring centuries of sheer horror. He was grateful to Lilith, however, for freeing him from the knife of Alastair – even if it came at the price of her own unique brand of brutality and coarse sexual tendencies. But those were things he could learn to live with.

The demon smiled benignly as he waited for his guest to arrive, knowing that somewhere out there, Lilith was now freed from the Pit and torturing the unsuspecting populace. He didn’t have to wait long for his guest, as behind him, the door creaked open and the faint, rhythmic clicking of heels on hardwood broke his thoughts.

Turning, he caught sight of the pretty young woman he'd come to know as Bela Talbot, flanked on either side by a couple of his black-eyed lackeys. An oily smile wide enough to crease the corners of his meatsuit's eyes curved his lips as he noticed she carried something wrapped delicately in a white cotton towel. Dismissing the other demons, they turned their dark eyes toward the pretty girl, leering at her, before leaving.

He motioned for her to sit, and to which obliged without question. From behind the shadows, the demon watched her closely for a moment, noting that she seemed a bit anxious – as though wanting nothing more than to finish whatever she needed to do here as quickly as possible.

Emerging from the obscurity, he took his seat and folded his hands casually around his middle, watching as she placed the package on the table and began to unwrap it. Something metallic and shiny glinted from beneath it, reflecting almost inhumanly in his eyes.

“The one and only Colt,” she announced. “Needless to say, I was surprised to find it where I did – unprotected in some a flimsy little vault.” She could feel her lips curve up a bit in spite of herself. “As you may know, its legend precedes it.”

A look of surprise mingled with that of disbelief came over him as he grabbed the weapon and examined the engraved pentagram on the handle before inspecting the long, metallic barrel, his fingers brushing over three inscribed words:

_Non timebo mala._

I will fear no evil.

He had once believed the Colt to have been a tale fabricated by hunters many years ago, only hearing whispers of its supposed whereabouts among the higher demonic circles every now and then. From what he learned, a man named Samuel Colt created it for a hunter in the nineteenth century; and it was his understanding that this thing could kill anything it fired upon. He never believed such a thing existed, until right now – until the proof sat right in his very own hands.

This was one-of-a-kind, exceptionally valuable, and he wanted it.

Her mouth was set in a straight line, but the mask of indifference did nothing to hide the anxiety written all over her delicate features. He’d seen the look hundreds – if not thousands – of times before: Her deal was coming due, and she was desperate to get out of it.

Carefully he set the Colt back on the table, purposefully letting his hand brush by hers in the process.

“You think by giving me this, love, I can get you out of your deal?”

The look on her face couldn’t be described as being relieved – far from it – but there was something in her eyes that told him she was glad the true nature of her visit was finally revealed.

Reading people’s thoughts was an ability he appreciated in times such as these, and he could read the thoughts carefully forming in her head. But one didn’t have to be psychic to know what her next words were or what his reply would be. Contracts were Lilith’s specialty, and just because they each other in the biblical sense, didn’t mean he could get her to break a contract if he asked nicely.

No. That was stupid and suicidal on his part. But the lovely young woman before him wouldn’t have to know that. Besides, where was the fun in that?

Without so much as missing a beat, Bela asked the expected question, her voice tinted with an almost audible tone of desperation. “Can you break the contract?”

Her words hung unanswered in the air, waiting for a response that almost didn’t come. The same deviated smile crossed his lips, amused at the lengths people would go to save their pitiful mortal lives. What’s more, amused at what he could get people to do under the guise of saving their pitiful lives.

He remained quiet as he rose from his chair, letting the tension and anxiety break her down even more. Following his movements closely, she turned her head as he casually strolled behind her.

“Now, now, for you poppet,” he breathed, brushing her hair aside and placing a hand on her shoulder, sending a shiver down her spine, “to break a deal such as this will simply take more than a gun, or a kiss, to make work.”

The tone of his voice straddled from teasing to serious, and Bela didn’t have to imagine the look on his face.

Inching closer to her, the warmth of his alcohol-tinged breath tickled on her neck – the smirk on his face growing wider as he dug his fingers into her coat, curling them around the soft material. “After all, it takes a bit of ancient magic to break something like that.”

The demon gave her shoulder a squeeze, running a finger up and down her arm – enjoying the effect it was having on her as a gasp of breath escaped her mouth. She sorely wished he couldn’t hear it.

He and Lilith loved to play around with the natives when so enticed to, and there was no denying Bela wanted it as bad as he did. He‘d fuck her just this once, and pretend to make good on a promise he had no intentions of keeping. Despite all his humanity having been burned out of him long ago, even he – in his twisted mind – knew it was cruel. One didn’t survive the centuries in the Pit by making friends or being nice.

Bela stood as the demon gently cupped her face with his hand, pulling her in close. Her lips were soft and warm on his, feeling oh so familiar; the saltiness of his tongue moving close against hers. It was like all the others he had prior to her, but it was something he never tired of.

Gently, he slid her coat down her shoulders letting it fall to the floor without any resistance from, even with his hands groping around her body.

-0-

It was said the road to Hell was paved with good intentions. It was a metaphor she knew all too well.

But there were no good intentions this time – only selfish reasons for wanting to salvage her life at any costs. And if it meant going as far as she just did, so be it.

Chilliness of the late night air bit at the thin cuts that decorated her – some of which still bled, leaving trails of crimson streaks down her nude body. Bela watched the demon she’d come to know as Crowley casually wiping off the blood – her blood – from around his mouth before cleaning the blade of his pocket knife with a towel. He had been insistent her blood was a necessary means.

Her arms and legs were splayed at her sides, immobile and useless. Taking a deep breath, the gentle movement was enough for the rough wood paneled walls to dig further into some of the cuts, stinging bitterly and making them bleed more.

Crowley looked as nonchalant as though they had only simply exchanged a few meaningless words; his dark eyes casually watched her from the side before he gave a lazy wave of his hand, freeing her from the wall.

Showing no sign of love or empathy – not that she expected him to – he tossed over his towel to her. “Dry up, love. That’s expensive flooring you’re bleeding on,” he reprimanded.

Bela quickly dabbed at her wounds and grabbed her discarded clothing off the floor, feeling the pressure under his watchful gaze.

“It comes to my attention that you know Sam Winchester,” Crowley began, watching the young woman dress. “My… associate, doesn’t particularly like him very much, viewing him as somewhat of a threat. Be a dear and kill him for me, would you?”

She said nothing in response, and once fully dressed she turned to leave the office, taking what would have been the tradition walk of shame. And yet, she felt nothing of the sort for what she had just done, nothing but a blank emotional void – the feeling of long being dead inside.

The end.  
  



End file.
